I was talking with my student Georgiana Popa after one of the acting classes in Craiova, and she asked if I’d ever been to a Romanian monastery. I told her that I had not, but that I would love to go. The next day, she emailed me and asked if I would like to meet some friends of hers, Marcel Radut-Seliste and his wife Diana. Marcel teaches theology at the University of Craiova, and is about to become a priest. In the Orthodox church, priests are allowed to be married. Nuns marry Jesus, and that’s the way it is. Georgiana and I rode a tram to Marcel’s apartment. Marcel and Diana were gracious hosts, serving drinks and desserts, and for nearly three hours, Marcel and I talked about God in all its various guises. I told Marcel about my life, explained my beliefs, and he seemed not to have a problem with our differences. Marcel told me more about Tismana monastery, a five hour drive north of Craiova. He said that maybe we could drive up and spend a weekend there. I told him that sounded great.
A few days later, Marcel emailed and asked if I would ride to the monastery with him, Diana, and a priest from their parish. He also asked if I would speak to 100 teenagers about spreading Christ’s message through acts of volunteering. I replied that I’m really not much of an expert on Christ’s message, and reminded him that I do not believe that religion is necessary to know God. He replied that his beliefs and mine are not so dissimilar, it’s just that he has embraced a clearly marked path that works best for him.
A recent report stated that 50% of all Americans change their religion at least once. One of my students asked why that is, and it wasn’t until a debate in my speaking class over Religion in Schools that I understood why. According to the 2002 census, 86.7 percent of Romanians identify themselves as Orthodox. My students explained that their Religion classes, in public schools and at many universities, are taught by Orthodox priests, who inculcate students in the ways of Orthodoxy. My experience with schools in the US has been a bit more varied: there, courses in religion typically offer an overview of many faiths. And though lack of options might lead to a more homogenous society, might it not also offer a sense of community and shared experience?
Dressed in a black cassock, his blue eyes peering out from his soft brown beard, Father Claudiu Porneala ate salsa chips and blasted the Dacia’s horn. We sped past startled drivers and livestock, and listened to modern pop songs on the radio. Claudiu’s wife Ramona sat in the back with Marcel and Diana. I sat up front and drank a coke to try and settle my stomach. The topic of the day, church business, heated up the car and enhanced the wild ride. We’d loaded up on junk food, and I felt like my teeth were crumbling.
Tismana monastery is the oldest in Romania, dating back to 1375. The surrounding forested hills reminded me of West Virginia. We arrived in the late afternoon, and checked into a hotel owned by the monastery. Two busloads of polite, somewhat shy teenagers crowded the front entrance. I was given a simple, tidy 3rd floor room, no phone or TV, which opened out to a peaceful balcony. An intense priest named Gabriel asked if I wanted to go for a walk, and we headed for a narrow wooded road that led up from the valley’s stream.
The conversation soon turned to God. Gabriel looks a bit like Michael Keaton. He plays it tough, but beneath the stern demeanor is a little boy wanting to play. Filling me in on church history, Gabriel referred to “Lord Tepes” (Dracula), and lauded his iron fist rule. I questioned how he was able to praise a warring, mass murderer, wondering about Jesus’ commandment to love. “Sometimes,” said Gabriel, “we must make sacrifices for the common good.” I couldn’t be sure, but it did not seem that he was joking.
Walking back to the hotel, Gabriel asked if I wished to be baptized into the Orthodox church. I said that I’d think about it. He told me that my christened name would be Cristi, and that I was welcome to join them. It was Friday, and the next day was the big one, a day of workshops and speeches. Before dinner, a bishop arrived with an old blind monk. I was instructed to remove my hat and bow before the bishop, and to kiss his hand if he offered it. Caught up in the in the moment, but feeling a bit disingenuous, I did as I was told, and when I stood and looked at him, I was taken aback by the warmth, love and goodness that seemed to radiate from the bishop's eyes.
A communal dinner, a restful sleep, a meaty-cheesy breakfast, a morning of workshops, and after lunch I found myself sitting at a table, listening to an Italian guest speak into a microphone, translated into Romanian, about the importance of volunteering. I looked at the notes I’d made while sitting on my balcony, an outline of my life’s trajectory: the selfish, destructive 20s, being stabbed to death at 31, waking from a coma with only one vocal chord, and sincerely praying for guidance and offering my life to God. When it came time, I offered the mic to my translator, Georgiana, and stepped out from behind the table and spoke to the teenagers directly.
Referring to my journey and my prayers, I told them about volunteering in San Francisco, and, because of a lawsuit surrounding the stabbing, being in a position to help my friends and family financially. I talked about Big Brothers/Big Sisters in Austin, Texas, and about how writer’s block led me back to acting classes which led me to a couple of film roles which led back to teaching at USF. And how a chance meeting with Daniel Akau in Tampa led me to Africa which led to the founding, with Mason Wiley, of birasudan, and how teaching at the University of South Florida led me to apply for a Fulbright which led me to Craiova which led me to Tismana and to Marcel, and to this very present moment.
In closing, I told them that for me, there was no burning bush, no sea parting, no flaming chariot or giant finger pointing down from the sky, but that in retrospect, I have learned that with a clear mind, a ready body, and a sincere heart, one can be guided to do the work one is here for, even if it’s an unplanned, unsettling, startling surprise.
Afterwards, one of the teenagers came to me in tears. She’d been hit by a bus a few years before, and had died on the operating table. She said that she hadn’t met anyone else who had died and come back, and begged me to tell her what I remembered. I told her some of what I could recall, and held back some of the more personal bits. She had been instructed by her family and her priest not to share what she remembered, for fear of being thought a liar. Clearly, it upset her, and was a relief to finally find someone that she could talk with.
At the end of the weekend, after much talk of God and church doctrine, I declined Gabriel’s offer of baptism, stating that, though I long for a sense of community, I am not ready to change my beliefs or values in order to achieve that. The priests all seemed to understand. The ride home was much slower and relaxed. We stopped and ate ice cream at a sidewalk café. I didn’t talk a whole lot. I felt like I had nothing left to say.
